


When Our Empire Fell

by supernatural_fanfictions



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Blood, Castiel's Trenchcoat, Dead Castiel, Death, Heavy Angst, I'm Sorry, My First Destiel Fanfic, Sad, Sad Dean, Sad Dean Winchester, Tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 21:27:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4538022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supernatural_fanfictions/pseuds/supernatural_fanfictions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's not a real plot. It's pure angst. Dean holds Cas while he dies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Our Empire Fell

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if it sucks. I'm still working on my writing. Critique/ feedback would be greatly appreciated.

There was his head, cradled in his arms. There were his toned shoulders, sheltered in a bloody trench coat, resting in his lap. The green-eyed man had pictured this scene so many times before, but never like this. He was supposed to be relaxing. They were supposed to be cuddling by a fire, collapsed on an overstuffed couch. The man whose head he cradled was supposed to be falling asleep, eyelids occasionally flickering as he tried to stay awake. Now, those bright blue eyes were fading. The man with green eyes could feel every shallow breath in his chest, tearing up his ribcage like a hurricane. His brother was right next to him. His mouth was moving. But he couldn’t hear his brother. Those blue eyes were speaking promises to him. There were tales of eternities that would have been spent together. There were incredibly complex novels in the drooping eyelids, and happiness brought by simplicities that would never come in the blood pooling around them. Why was there a concrete floor? Where was the couch that he fantasized about? He was never supposed to hold the dying angel. The angel was supposed to be beside him in the last moments of the human, whispering plans of the fun they’d have once the human found his Heaven.

On the angel’s last breath, there were three words. In the man’s first tear, those three words were repeated. He ran a hand through the dark hair of his beloved. He told himself that he was looking for some comfort, but he knew the truth. He was hoping enough affection would bring him back and they could spend all those moments they never spent. Maybe they could speak the words they never said. But in this moment, there was an end. His lips were trembling. He swallowed useless words. The angel would never be around to hear what he had to say. There was an end to a voice. There was an end to a life. This end was the ending of a story, without allowing the conflict to be resolved. The man felt his heart being shredded. He couldn’t breathe. It hurt him physically, to look at what lay in his hands. He didn’t believe what he was seeing. Angels couldn’t die. He was screaming lies to himself.

He was still here.

They were okay.

His chest was rising and falling.

They were building an empire together that would last through all time. It crumbled to dust in a few seconds. His heart was bleeding. He could feel it in his lungs, in his mind, everywhere. His angel had been taken from him and now everything else was as well. He was falling in a bottomless pit. He used to call it love. It became despair. He prayed to a thing that wasn’t there. He prayed for him to come back. He prayed for the ability to not feel. This pain, this emptiness, was worse than nothing. He had believed that emotions made him human, but this wasn’t right. No man was built to handle this. He couldn’t. He felt, in every fiber of his being, longing. He just wanted the angel to open his eyes.


End file.
